


The Christmas at Macy's Affair

by kronette



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Christmas, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 02:29:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya's an elf. Napoleon is Santa Claus. Both have been naughty...or is that nice?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Christmas at Macy's Affair

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in 1999 under my other pseud, Shelley Wright.

Mr. Waverly looked over his two best agents with a grim face. "I'm sorry to have to send you on this assignment, gentlemen." 

"That's alright, sir," Napoleon Solo answered quickly to mask his amusement. "We understand why you asked us." He shot his partner a glance out of the corner of his eye and winced at the icy glare. He was going to pay for this one. 

Waverly nodded, effectively dismissing them. Napoleon rose to his feet and his partner, Illya Kuryakin, followed suit. 

Once outside their superior's office, Illya hissed, " _I_ do not understand." 

Napoleon pulled Illya to the side of the corridor and lowered his voice. "Did you really want to refuse an order?" 

"Yes!" the normally calm Russian hissed. "I cannot...I _will_ not..." 

"Illya." Napoleon's smooth tones instantly put the other agent on alert, "I'll be right there with you. Besides," he added dryly, " _You_ have the easy part. All you have to do is take pictures." 

" _I_ have to be a distraction," Illya countered with a grimace. "Need I remind you what normally happens when I provide a distraction? I have no desire to end up in the Infirmary again." 

"How hard can it be, really?" the ever-optimistic Napoleon asked. "After all, they're just children." 

~~~ 

"They're small Thrush agents-in-training," Illya grumbled as he peered out of the curtain at the long line of squealing children and harried-looking parents. 

"We haven't even started yet, Illya. How can you say that?" Napoleon asked as he tried to buckle his belt. "Could you give me a hand, here?" He glared at his _former_ partner as Illya applauded lightly. " _Help_ me, you numbskull," he threatened menacingly. 

"You asked for a hand. I was giving you one," Illya quipped, though he did help pull the strap through the buckle and clipped it into place. "Are you able to breathe in that..." he sounded pained just to say the word, "suit?" 

Napoleon shifted his shoulders to give him a bit more maneuvering room. "Yes, though it is a bit warm." He eyed his partner's flamboyantly-colored outfit, the brightness contrasting badly with his scowl. He coughed lightly to cover his stifled laugh. 

"Are you sure you're all right?" Illya asked with some concern. He rested a hand on Napoleon's arm. 

Napoleon swallowed hard as heat radiated from Illya's touch through his heavy coat. "Could you get me a glass of water?" he asked around another cough, afraid to truly test his voice. 

Illya nodded sharply and was off to the small bathroom. Napoleon took several deep breaths and wiped the sweat from his brow. The suit was only part of his problem. His _partner_ was his problem. From the moment Illya had stepped out of the dressing area and grimaced at him, Napoleon had been helpless. 

From the bell hanging from the green-with-red-trim pointed hat down to his bell-topped green slippers curled at the toe, Illya looked adorable. In a lethal sort of way. It had taken several minutes of explanation and persuasion before Illya took off his gun holster and agreed to hide it in a gift box. An elf armed with an U.N.C.L.E. special might bring the holiday in on the wrong note. 

The remembrance of it brought a smile to his lips. 

"Are you sure you're all right?" Illya's gruff voice startled him back to the present. 

"Fine. Fine," Napoleon assured him as he took the glass with slightly trembling fingers. He pulled down his beard as he drank, then went to the mirror to readjust it. "I think I should glue this down," he mused as he patted the white whiskers. 

"It does look fake," Illya agreed. "I'll get it." He rummaged in the small case Macy's had left them, producing the small tube. He walked over to Napoleon and turned him. "Hold still." 

Illya carefully applied the glue and held the whiskers in place. After a minute, he gave an experimental tug. 

"Ow," Napoleon grumbled and rubbed his sore skin. 

"Just testing to see if it would hold." The twinkle in his eyes belied the serious expression on his face. 

"You didn't have to test so hard. That's skin under there," Napoleon muttered, eyeing his partner. They had agreed 'no playing' while on duty, but Illya seemed to be pushing him. As he contemplated retaliation, the store manager poked his head behind the curtain and announced they were ready for them. 

Illya led the way, and Napoleon took time to admire the green tights encasing the strong legs. Too bad the green and red checked frock hung to mid-thigh; that would have been a very nice present indeed. As it was, Napoleon contended himself with a light slap to Illya's backside, effectively pushing him past the curtain and into Santa's area. Napoleon threw back the curtains and smiled widely at the squeals of delight that greeted his appearance. He waved to the children, then took his seat at the throne. As he settled in, his gaze fell to his partner, bending over to check that the gun was still concealed in the package at his feet. Napoleon reminded himself he was dressed as Santa Claus and was about to have a lot of strange children sitting on his lap. He forced himself under control even as he cursed Illya, conveniently ignoring the fact that he had given Illya's bottom a slap. He gave a hearty laugh and waved for the first child to come up. 

Illya winced as the eager little boy bounced up into Napoleon's lap. His partner didn't seem to mind as he gave the child a hug and whispered in his ear. The boy's eyes sparkled as he whispered back, presumably telling 'Santa' what he wanted for Christmas. Illya rolled his eyes as Napoleon arranged the boy for the photo. 

"Ready when you are, my little elf," Napoleon announced with a wicked smile. 

Remembering his role in the nick of time, Illya just smiled. He snapped the picture and waited for it to develop while Napoleon gave the boy a candy cane and hustled him off to his mother. He gestured for the next, a little girl, to come up to him, but she shook her head and clutched onto her mother's leg. 

"Come here, sweetheart. Don't you want to talk to Santa?" Napoleon cooed at her. 

She shook her head furiously and hung on tighter. 

Napoleon shot Illya a pleading look, and with a restrained sigh, the Russian knelt by the little girl. 

"What is your name?" he asked quietly. 

The mother began, "Her name..." 

"I asked her," Illya cut her off, never taking his eyes off the little girl. "What does your mommy call you?" 

"Jacqueline," she replied softly. Her huge eyes were fixated on him. 

"Jacqueline, my name is Illya. I'm an...elf," he sighed internally, "that helps Santa. Do you want to help me?" 

She nodded enthusiastically. He held out his hand and she clasped onto him. Wincing as she crushed his fingers together, he walked her over to Napoleon. 

"Santa, I want you to meet Jacqueline. Jacqueline, this is Santa." 

"Hello, there," Napoleon said with a smile. 

The little girl tightened her grip on Illya's hand. He knelt down by her, ignoring Napoleon's concerned gaze. "Jacqueline, I want you to help me. Could you sit in Santa's lap and tell him what you want for Christmas?" 

"Do I have to?" she asked in a tiny voice. 

"Would you do it for me?" he asked. "I promise, he hasn't pet the reindeer lately. He doesn't smell." 

She giggled but still shook her head. 

Illya's patience was rapidly thinning, and this was only the second child. His eyes drifted to the large line going back to the far wall and groaned softly. 

"What's matter?" she asked as she batted at the bell on his hat. 

He tried to ignore the tiny hand flashing in front of his face. "Your mommy and I want you to tell Santa what you want for Christmas. It will only take one minute, then you get a candy cane. Don't you like candy?" 

She hesitated and Illya felt a wash of triumph flow through him. "Whatever candy the little boys and girls don't take, I get to feed to the reindeer. And if you ask me, they've had too much already!" he whispered conspiratorially to her. "They might not be able to fly." He held his arms out at his sides and puffed out his cheeks, indicating they had gotten too fat. 

She laughed and made a flying leap into Napoleon's lap. 

"Oof! You're a big girl," Napoleon exclaimed. "How old are you? Ten?" 

"I'm six!" she proclaimed proudly. 

Illya shook his head and took up position behind the camera. Two down, thousands to go. How were they supposed to keep an eye out for Thrush if the children persisted in being noisy, obnoxious and in the way? 

"Illya!" 

He shook his head at the sound of his name, causing the damnable bell to ring again. He took their picture and tried not to scowl at Napoleon's mocking grin. 

The afternoon continued in much the same way. The majority of children were more than happy to bound up to Santa, but Illya had to coax the reluctant ones, sometimes acquiring bodily harm. He had been bitten twice, kicked more times than he could remember, sneezed on by one little girl, had his feet stomped on, and his hat taken hostage by one boy, about age 10, who had a malicious streak. Illya had allowed his anger to surface when addressing that youth -- just a glare -- but the boy had returned the hat with fear in his eyes. 

Illya's triumphant smile was not lost on Napoleon, who secretly admired his partner's ability with children. As Illya settled his hat properly, Napoleon let out a breath. He was stifling hot in the suit. He had been kicked, tugged, poked, punched and scratched. His feet were killing him; the children were using them as launching pads for his lap. His face was sticky from the candy-kisses he had gotten, and itching like crazy. The glue was starting to lose its adhesiveness and one more tug might pull it off. He surreptitiously checked the time; they had ten minutes before their shift ended. Surely they could last that long. 

He saw Illya talking with the parents of a little boy, no more than five years old. He didn't know what the problem was until Illya brought the boy up to him. 

"He's French-Canadian, Pere Noel," Illya explained. 

It was the fifth or sixth child who spoke little English, but between them, they had managed to communicate to them all; their U.N.C.L.E. training coming in handy for once that day. Napoleon had no troubles with French, so he called to the boy and listened as he rattled off his list of presents. They talked for a minute or two, then Illya took their picture. The boy slid off Napoleon's abused lap and ran to his mother. Napoleon stood up rather stiffly and waved to the children. 

The manager came over and announced that Santa had to feed the reindeer and would be back in an hour. Illya made sure to grab the box with the gun in it and the two of them disappeared behind the curtain. 

Napoleon hissed as he peeled off his whiskers. "Damn glue itches." 

Illya scratched at his legs. "At least you don't have tights on. They couldn't have been leggings; they had to be _tights_. Men were not meant to wear tights," he complained. 

Napoleon unbuckled his belt and stripped off the hot coat with a sigh of relief. "What about ballet dancers?" 

Illya leaned against a support beam and rubbed one sore foot. "That's different. Ballet is art." 

"And this isn't?" Napoleon reached up and tugged on the bell on Illya's hat. He couldn't help but smile. 

"Leave that alone," Illya protested as he leaned back out of Napoleon's reach. 

"Oh, come on Illya. I just want to ring your bell," Napoleon taunted, his voice silky smooth. There was a devilish twinkle in his eye as he advanced toward his partner. 

"Napoleon, there are _children_ outside," Illya hissed as he glanced furtively about him. There was a stack of boxes to his left that he could climb over if Napoleon insisted on taking this further. 

Napoleon shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. "And we're behind a curtain. What harm is there?" 

Illya pulled himself on top of the boxes and scrambled to safety on the other side. "Do you want to corrupt them with images of Santa and his _male_ elf friend kissing?" 

"It would do them good to broaden their horizons," Napoleon answered matter-of-factly. 

Illya's shocked, "Napoleon!" threatened to draw the attention of the manager. 

"Hush, Illya. Haven't you learned the benefits of undertones?" Napoleon skirted around the boxes toward his wary partner. 

"Yes, I have," he threatened in a low voice. "And if you don't stop your pursuit soon, you'll get a lump of coal in your stocking!" Illya sounded ominous, but his blue eyes sparkled with challenge. 

They were distracted by voices drawing closer. They both smiled at the third shift Santa and elf, a man and a blonde woman with a short bobbed hairstyle. As Napoleon's gaze traveled over the woman, he got a wicked idea. He drew Illya to the side while the new arrivals got dressed. 

"What are you doing, Napoleon?" Illya muttered. 

Napoleon grinned at the sickly smile Illya directed at the man, who was having trouble with his padding. The woman went to help him and Napoleon neatly turned them so his back was to the wall. He looked over Illya's shoulder and waited until the woman went to the changing area. 

"Napoleon? Whammmph." Illya's question was cut off abruptly by the sheer expediency of Napoleon's lips descending upon his. Illya stiffened and tried to draw back, but Napoleon had a firm hold of his hair under his hat. He would lose a good portion of his scalp if he tried to jerk away, so he suffered under Napoleon's torturous kiss. 

He felt the second Illya surrendered to the moment. His body relaxed minutely, his mouth opened under his, and his body heat increased ten-fold. Napoleon's fingers tangled in the mop of hair as his tongue slipped into the hot recesses of his lover's mouth. 

They were so lost in the moment that at first, they barely registered the startled gasp. But neither could ignore the store manager's outraged, "Mr. Solo!" 

Startled, Illya tried to pull back but Napoleon held on tight. 

"Don't," the American murmured. "Don't turn around." 

Illya's blue eyes widened and a flush spread up his neck. Napoleon could feel the pounding of his lover's heart against his chest. Illya bent his knees a bit until he could bury his face in Napoleon's neck. 

Napoleon turned his dark glare on the store manager. "Yes?" he snarled impatiently. 

The man paled, but stood firm. "I will not tolerate this type of behavior. There are _children_ right outside that curtain," he admonished them, not realizing he was echoing Illya's earlier statement. "Ms. DeFoe, you are due outside in ten minutes. Do I need to remind you of our policies?" 

Napoleon tightened his grip on Illya and murmured, "He's talking to you." 

Illya's head jerked upright and both his eyebrows disappeared under his hat. He nodded his head quickly, hoping it would be enough to satisfy the manager. He dropped his head back down to Napoleon's shoulder. 

Apparently it was. "Ten minutes," he reminded 'her'. He turned abruptly and went through the curtain without a backward glance. 

Napoleon eased his grip on Illya, worried about what mood his lover was in. Was he angry? Upset? Ready to punch him out? 

Illya raised his eyes to Napoleon's, and the older man inhaled sharply at the naked arousal shining from the nearly-black eyes. Illya fisted the front of Napoleon's shirt and jerked him forward. His lips crashed onto Napoleon's, hot and demanding. He finally broke for air with one last suck on Napoleon's lower lip. 

"Napoleon," Illya breathed as he stroked his lover's chest through the T-shirt, "Do you have any idea how much that excited me?" 

Napoleon licked his lips to make sure they hadn't been sucked off, then answered in a shaky voice, "I'm beginning to get the picture." 

A feral smile crossed the normally stoic features. "Good," Illya purred. He turned abruptly and started toward the dressing area.

Napoleon grabbed his hand and pulled him back against his chest. "Where do you think you're going?" he growled softly. 

"I'm going to change, then I'm going home." His eyes raked Napoleon's form. "If you're such a smart American, you'll follow my lead." 

Napoleon leaned down and nipped at Illya's earlobe. "Don't change," he whispered. 

"Hmmm?" Illya answered distractedly. 

He licked behind Illya's ear, and a soft whimper answered him. "We're going home _now_ ," he ordered quietly. He abruptly straightened and took a step back, leaving a stunned Illya standing alone. He pulled on his coat and buttoned it securely. When he started walking to the exit, Illya snapped into action. Throwing on his coat, he quickly buttoned it to his throat and joined Napoleon. 

With a smile, Napoleon held the door for his lover, anticipation of the night ahead tightening in his gut. 

~~~ 

Napoleon turned to close the door to his apartment when it was slammed shut. The familiar hand of his lover rested at his hip, and he arched into the incredible heat of Illya's body pressed against his back. The anticipation heightened another notch. 

"We're home, _Santa_ ," Illya murmured in his ear. 

"Mmm," Napoleon agreed with a smile. "Maybe you'll sit on Santa's lap and tell him what sort of boy you've been this year." 

" _Boy_?" 

He could hear the threat in Illya's voice. Napoleon's head fell back to rest on Illya's shoulder as nimble fingers made quick work of his coat buttons. The offending garment was quickly stripped off and dropped to the floor. He shivered. 

"I'll show you _boy_ ," was softly growled in his ear. Large, knowledgeable hands roamed under Napoleon's shirt to scrape gently at his nipples. "You don't feel like Babouschka," ghosted past his ear. He groaned softly as Illya's mouth started sucking at the side of his neck. "Mmm, you don't taste like her, either." 

Napoleon swallowed hard as Illya's hand dipped down into his pants and rubbed him with the tips of his fingers. Through the sensations, he managed to tease, "Have you been tasting many Santas? Should I be jealous?" 

The pleasurable hands left him and he moaned his frustration. He turned around and pulled Illya to him. His eyes flicked over his partner hungrily. 

Illya tilted his head up slightly and gave Napoleon a deep, wet kiss. "There is only one Santa, Napoleon. And I think it's time for me to tell him what I want for Christmas." He placed one hand firmly at the center of Napoleon's chest and guided him backwards into the bedroom. 

The backs of Napoleon's knees hit the bed and he fell to the soft mattress. He stared wide-eyed as Illya placed one knee on either side of his lap and straddled his thighs. His arms automatically circled the younger man, diving under the frock to the warm skin underneath. "It doesn't work that way." He licked his lips as he reminded his lover, "It all depends on if you've been naughty or nice." 

That _smile_ was back on Illya's face. The one that sent shivers down Napoleon's spine. The one that promised a hell of a lot more than a bedtime story. "What if I've been nice?" Illya asked in a little-boy voice. 

"Then you'll get a train set," Napoleon murmured as he leaned forward to give him a light kiss. 

The tip of Illya's tongue flicked across Napoleon's lips. His voice was husky as he asked, "And if I've been naughty?" 

Napoleon's hands moved lower to cup Illya's ass. "You get me," he stated as he pulled Illya forward and devoured his mouth. His tongue met Illya's and they struggled for control, their hands trying to make short work of their restraining clothing. 

Napoleon fumbled with Illya's costume, finally snarling, "How did you get this thing _on_?" 

Panting, Illya leaned back and slowly pulled it over his head, along with his T-shirt, leaving the expanse of his smooth chest for Napoleon's mouth to explore. 

Napoleon was leaning to do just that when the jangle of a bell drew his attention. He smiled wickedly as he saw the discarded elf hat in the heap of clothes on the floor. 

"If you tell me to put it back on, I'll shove it down your throat," Illya warned. 

Napoleon moved fast. He gripped Illya around the waist with one hand while his other dove into the front of Illya's tights. "What," Napoleon murmured as he wrapped his hand around his lover's cock, "Did you want to shove?" 

"Ah," Illya managed to gasp, coherent thought gone as Napoleon's hand began to stroke him. "Hat..." 

"Yes, you were going to wear your hat," Napoleon murmured encouragingly. His smugness vanished as Illya's hand found a home inside his unbuckled pants. The grip on his cock was too light and he rocked his hips to get more friction. His hold on Illya's erection slipped a bit, enabling the blood to flow a bit more freely to the Russian's brain. 

"You wear the Santa hat," Illya ordered breathlessly. 

Napoleon's eyes were half closed in agony. He needed more and he needed it _now_ and why was Illya talking? "Yes," he moaned, _anything_ , "Anything," just, "More." 

Napoleon started to protest as he was abruptly released, but his protest turned into a groan as Illya returned wearing the elf hat. The Santa hat dangled from Illya's teeth as he removed their clothing with great efficiency. He crawled on top of Napoleon and placed the Santa hat on his lover's head, lingering over a kiss. Urgent need overrode everything else. Mouths teased, licked and nipped any skin within reach. Hands roamed over sweat-slick skin, pinching and teasing and heightening pleasure. Flesh rubbed on flesh, hot friction building into something overwhelming. The high-pitched tinkling of the bell on Illya's hat joined the frenzied movements of the lovers as they both reached their peak. 

The bell jangled once more as Illya's head dropped to Napoleon's chest. Harsh breathing filled the quiet. They lay unmoving, trying to catch their breath. 

"Tomorrow, _you_ get to be Santa," Napoleon ordered around a yawn. 

"Mmm," was Illya's post-coital answer, which Napoleon took as affirmation before he drifted to sleep. 

~~~ 

The beep of a communciator pen woke them up. 

Illya fumbled with his and sleepily asked, "Yes?" 

"Mr. Kuryakin. I was hoping to catch you before you left for Macy's. I'm afraid we've made a mistake." Something in Mr. Waverly's voice brought Illya wide awake. He held up his hand to quiet Napoleon, who he heard wake up behind him. 

"Yes, sir?" 

Waverly harrumped. "It seems we used the wrong decoder on the message we intercepted from Thrush. They weren't out to destroy anything. It was simply a message from a section head, wishing those under him a Merry Christmas." 

Napoleon's chin came to rest on Illya's shoulder, and the blond turned to him with a raised brow. "They sent a Christmas card?" 

"In effect, yes, Mr. Kuryakin. It seems even Thrush decided to take a holiday this year. May I extend the same courtesy to you. Enjoy the next few days off. I must see to informing the rest of our agents." 

"I'll tell Napoleon, sir. He's on his way over to pick me up," Illya said into the pen while elbowing Napoleon in the ribs. His partner was trying very hard not to laugh, and Illya didn't want to have to explain why Napoleon just happened to be in his bedroom. 

"Very good. Out." 

Illya closed the pen and sighed. "I can't believe this." 

Napoleon lost the slight control he had and cracked up. "They sent a Christmas card? That's it?" 

"It appears so." He glared down at his lover, who was still laughing. "Napoleon, I don't find this funny at all. We endangered those children yesterday for no good reason." 

"They were perfectly safe," Napoleon rationalized as he brought himself under control. "Besides, I had a great time. And I loved seeing you in that outfit," he murmured as he leaned up to nibble on Illya's earlobe. 

"Napoleon! It was humiliating. And will you stop for just one moment?" Illya snarled as he pushed his lover away. "I'm trying to have a conversation." 

"And I'm trying to seduce you." When that earned him a glare, Napoleon sighed and sat up. "I guess I'll have to settle for bribery." He got up, pulled Illya to his feet, and headed into the living room. 

"Bribery? What are you talking about, Napoleon?" Illya demanded as Napoleon stopped them by the tree. 

He picked out a small, brightly wrapped present. He tossed it to Illya as he sat down on the sofa. "Open it." 

Blazing with curiosity, Illya ripped into the package eagerly...and stared wide-eyed at his lover. "You bought me tights?" 

Napoleon's eyes glazed over as Illya removed the black stretchy material from its package. "I ordered them yesterday," the American muttered. "Had them delivered. Loved seeing you in them." 

A slow, feral smile graced Illya's face. He sat down and carefully stretched the fabric up over his calves. He kept his eyes on Napoleon as he continued to drag the tights over his knees, then up his thighs. His lover's labored breathing rasped in the quiet. Arousal spiked through him as Napoleon's tongue dragged across his lips, leaving a wet trail. 

The breath caught in Illya's throat as his lover's reaction. He sank to the chair behind him and pulled off the tights. Napoleon made a strangled noise, then groaned as Illya stood up and walked over to him. He wound the legs of the tights around his hands as he advanced on Napoleon. He stopped and stared down at his lover, draped the tights across the back of Napoleon's neck and hauled him to his feet. 

He pulled Napoleon into a deep kiss, then into the bedroom, where he proceeded to give him a very special Christmas present. 

The End


End file.
